


Know that while you sleep

by OhAine



Series: The Dance [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Comma Abuse, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluffy Angst, I don't know where this comes from - I'm actually quite a happy person, I've decided that's a thing, Off page violence, Please read notes for additional warnings, Possible PTSD - Not too sure if that's what's going on, Sherlolly - Freeform, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-04
Updated: 2015-05-04
Packaged: 2018-03-29 01:53:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3877888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OhAine/pseuds/OhAine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Was it so wrong that he wanted to save you Molly? That he didn’t want you to die?”<br/>She exhaled shakily, deeply. How could she explain when she barely understood it herself?<br/>“That’s – that’s not it Mycroft, it’s just.  It’s just.” Another shaky breath, “I had always thought that I might die because I chose him, I-I…ugghhh,” she made a frustrated sound and clenched her fists by her side, “I never, never, expected him to die because of me.”  She looked at Mycroft through her damp lashes.<br/>“That, my dear sister, was a possible outcome from the moment he first realised he loved you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Know that while you sleep

**Author's Note:**

> Again, I don't want to ruin the story, but as with part 1 if you have pregnancy, fertility or any baby related / child issues you may want to sit this one out. 
> 
> I own nothing: Moffat, Gatiss, Conan Doyle, Brealey and Cumberbatch's curls own it all.
> 
> Title is from "Mirrorball" by Elbow, The song quoted about half way through is "(There is) No greater love" by the late, great Amy Winehouse.
> 
> I actually quite like Barry Manilow, no offence intended.
> 
> Will make more sense if you've read part 1
> 
> Un beta'd - all mistakes, poor grammar choices, over use of punctuation and cheesy sentiments are mine.
> 
> Dedicated again to Mr OhAine: the description Sherlock gives of Molly's eyes is based on his beautiful ones. He'll be (not so) thrilled I've told you that. Oh well, we had a good run.

****

****

_“Know that while you sleep_

_Everything has changed_

_You make the moon our mirrorball_

_The street's an empty stage_

_The city's sirens, violins_

_Ev_ _erything has changed”_

 

Sherlock Holmes stood at the window of his childhood bedroom looking across the gardens of the family estate, remembering the parties that his parents had given on summer evenings decades ago.  Laughter and chatting, music and dancing would draw him from his bed to watch the guests below – gentlemen in black tie led ladies in ball gowns in an ancient mating ritual.  Tinkling laughter, fuelled by champagne bubbles and whispered flirtations, would drift on the summer breeze through his open window where he would kneel transfixed by the beautiful couples dancing on the patio below.  The women were beautiful and elegant, graceful and desirable, but not one of them could have held a candle to the woman he was watching now. 

The gardens then looked much like they did tonight; fairy lights and lanterns adorned the trees nearest the main house, the marquee was lit by candlelight alone and the patio was a riot of hydrangeas and roses, the sound of the band warming up to play for the evenings dancing drifted to his window in the same way as it had done years before.  Yet Sherlock Holmes, who observed everything, saw none of this.  All of his attention was focused on the woman he loved more than life itself.  Molly, dressed in a simple silk sheath, embellished with only a single white rose in her hair was more breath taking and beautiful at that moment than any of the hundreds of glamorous women who had stood in that garden before. Her skin glowed in the soft, defused light from the lanterns and her eyes sparkled with the joy of the day that had just passed.  His foolish romantic heart twisted at the sight.

The wedding guests were beginning to leave the marquee to gather near the patio to bear witness to the new Mr and Mrs Holmes’ first dance. 

Weeks ago, when the subject of the wedding party’s first dance was broached, around the time the wedding planning had reached the mutiny stage of evolution, the bride remained quiet when the groom had scoffed at the indignity of such a public display of sentiment; but the bride’s sister had not.  Miss Hooper was victorious and it was clear to the Holmes men then (had it not been before, we’re they really that…dim?) that the Hooper women were not to be trifled with.

Snapping himself out of his reverie, Sherlock made his way back to the party below feeling unaccountably nervous.  He loved to dance, he’d danced with Molly a hundred times before, and yet he couldn’t quiet the uneasy tension that was building in every muscle.  He saw her approach at the periphery of his vision, and forced himself to be easy for her sake, rearranging his features into his most charming smile he turned toward her.

“Sherlock? I think the band is just about ready, do you want to...?” Molly said extending her hand to him.

He hesitated, and with a cheeky grin to cover his nervousness said, “Maybe I should find Mycroft first.  If he’s discovered the wedding cake I may have to intervene or he won’t surface again until the emergency tailor arrives to adjust his morning coat.”

Molly threw her head back and laughed, “Oh Sherlock really, you promised to be _good_ today.”

“You should have used greater precision of language when you constructed your request.  You really should have asked me to be _nice_ if you wanted me to behave around Mycroft.”

“Semantics Sherlock.” Molly said in her best “ _cut the crap”_ voice but with one eyebrow raised and a lopsided grin plastered across her face, “Besides, Libby has become proficient at Mycroft wrangling, I think she’s got it under control.”

He threw his eyes heavenward in a comically exaggerated display of intolerance and said, “I’m delighted that your sister has taken it upon herself to reform him.  Mummy will be impressed” he sniffed.

She softly smiled at him, “ _Sherlock_ ”

He bowed to her in a gesture of surrender, taking her outstretched hand, and placing it in the crook of his arm escorted her to where their siblings stood, just in time for the music to begin.

Twirling her away and then pulling her back to his body, he took one of her hands in his and placed his other hand on her lower back, the feeling of silk under his skin, a thin barrier between him and the heat of her body.  He never really forgot, but was sometimes just struck by how _beautiful_ she was - doe-like brown eyes flecked with gold, that made him think of sunflowers when he gazed into them, her skin glowing and her delicate body encased in barely there diaphanous silk making her look ethereal – an angelic creature, fallen from the heavens. The soft light catching the strands of blonde in her hair, casting a halo around her. He fought the overwhelming desire to place his lips on her bare shoulder. The delicate scent of the rose in her hair mingled with the perfume she wore in the hollow of her throat, No. 19, he’d given it to her for birthday last year. His skin tingled where her temple rested against his cheek. She assaulted his senses, she had the power to make him weak with want – she wasn’t even trying to. Oh Christ, this train of thought had to end before he did something to scandalise himself right there on the patio with half of MI6 and the combined Hooper / Holmes clans watching.

He leaned into her in a conspiratorial gesture, and whispered to her, “I can’t believe Mycroft is going along with this.  Look at him for Christ’s sake; he looks like a three legged duck trying to co-ordinate with the music.  And. _And_. He looks like he’s been at the buffet again.”

Molly did her best not to giggle, but buried her face in Sherlock’s shoulder just to be safe, whispering back, “Yes, well Sherlock, not everyone has been gifted with your graceful limbs and a disciplined body that will do what it’s told.”

“Even so Molly.”

“ _SHERLOCK_.” A clear warning, even if she was still beaming at him.

“And the music.  Dear God Molly, your sister’s taste is appalling.  What the _hell_ is this anyway??!!”

“Barry Manilow, I think.” Scrunching her face up in disgust, “Ok, I’ll give you that, her taste is…not good…, but the bride gets what she wants, remember.  Grooms are just another accessory at a wedding,” she smirked up at him, and he rolled his eyes again, “besides, Mycroft doesn’t seem to mind, he loves Libby, he’d do anything for her, he’d die for -”

Molly cut herself off at least three words too late. The tension returned to Sherlock’s body, his posture stiffened. She froze. Oh God, Oh God, why had she said that. 

“It’s- it’s fine Molly, please, keep dancing. Please Molly just – just keep dancing.”

Hell, he thought, _HELL_.  They’d been doing so well today. In the months since Molly had ended things they’d managed so well with each other; to have respect for the love they’d shared and the happiness of their siblings, who had been brought together by Sherlock and Molly’s ordeal. _Please don’t let it fall apart now_ , he thought, not with everyone watching them.  _Please_.

They began to move again, her face pale. They finished the dance in silence, tension rolling off Sherlock in waves. When the music ended he stepped away from her.  She reached out a plaintive hand, her face a wretched tapestry of apology and sadness.  He looked at her hand between them but didn’t reach for it, turning instead toward the house, and in the end almost sprinting inside.

Other couples began to fill the patio now and Libby’s wretched choice of music gave way to the beautiful jazz standards Mycroft had chosen.  Molly quietly slipped away, and followed Sherlock into the house.  The family sitting room at the rear of the house was quiet and in darkness, but the figure resting his elbows on the mantel piece with his face in his hands was unmistakeably Sherlock.

Oh God. Were they really going to have to have this conversation again, now.

“They would have killed you Sherlock.  You should never have handed yourself to them, you should have-”

Scrubbing his face in his hands, he shouted “They would have killed _you_ Molly.”

Still with his back to her, and with his voice thick with emotion, “Am I so undeserving Molly? Do I not have the right to give of myself?  Why must I be forced to allow you to martyr yourself, to sacrifice, but I cannot do the same for you?”

 “That’s not-” she started.

“Don’t Molly. _Don’t_.” He smashed the glass he was holding against the marble fireplace.  In a raised voice, almost shouting, “Don’t tell me I’m wrong Molly, because you’ve done it before, this wasn’t the first time that you treated me as some perpetually fragile child who must be protected from himself.”

“Sherlock, what are you talking about?” she stared at him, slack jawed, puzzled.

Quieter now, tears threatening and barely under control, “My son, Molly.” He turned to face her for the first time since she entered the room, “I’d fathered a child Molly, how, _HOW_ , could you not tell me?”

Shit. _Shit._ “We – I – wanted you to be safe, I -”

He shouted at her from across the room, he was shaking now – fury or fear, he couldn’t tell which, _“That wasn’t your choice to make.”_  

She couldn’t speak; she had no words to explain it. The seconds of silence that followed were disturbed by footsteps in the hall.  Mycroft.

 _“What the blasted hell is going on here Sherlock!?_ Mycroft entered the room and stood by the now tearful Molly; protective of her.  “This is my wedding day. For God’s sake Sherlock, _control yourself_.” He snarled the last two words.

Sherlock retreated wordlessly, higher ground to be sought, leaving Mycroft and Molly alone.

When she turned to leave too, Mycroft held her arm.  “No, let him calm down first before you try again.”

“You heard?”

“Not words, no, but I could hear his raised voice from outside.  It’s fine Molly, Libby didn’t hear.”

“Good, that’s, um, good.”  She blew a breath out.

A pause, they both relaxed a little, then taking his chance Mycroft said, “Was it so wrong that he wanted to save you Molly? That he didn’t want you to die?”

She exhaled shakily, deeply. How could she explain when she barely understood it herself?

“That’s – that’s not it Mycroft, it’s just.  It’s just.” Another shaky breath, “I had always thought that I might die because I chose him, I-I…ugghhh,” she made a frustrated sound and clenched her fists by her side, “I never, _never_ , expected him to die because of me.”  She looked at Mycroft through her damp lashes. 

“That, my dear sister, was a possible outcome from the moment he first realised he loved you.”  Her tears began to fall freely now, passing her a handkerchief Mycroft gave her a tight lipped smile, “You know many of my peers never marry, never have children.” He turned on the lights, made sure they were looking directly at each other’s eyes, “With good reason.”  The quality of Molly’s attention changed at that, if Libby was in danger… “No immediate danger, no,” he said in response to the question she hadn’t spoken, “not a specified risk at any rate, not at this very moment.  But there is a pervasive danger to this lifestyle; it’s a defining attribute of my continued existence in the same way it is for Sherlock.”  He sat, gesturing for her to do the same, and took a long sip from the glass of brandy he had carried with him from the bar outside.

“I considered myself an island Molly, I would never take a wife, never court friendships or emotional entanglements.  A safety mechanism if you will, I could not be harmed through those I would love nor they though me.  I was happy with my path, the work is… fulfilling… and in truth it is so integral to my life I would tear myself apart without it. 

Sound familiar to you?”

She nodded in affirmation; she was paying rapt attention now.

“I loved Libby almost instantly – I had no idea that was even possible.  I always assumed I would have a choice to make if I were to find that I had **_feelings_** for someone.” The word seemed distasteful to him, “But there was no choice, the die was cast in the blink of an eye, my wishes, my thoughts were no longer relevant, I was no longer in control of the citadel I had built.  So when I found myself in a situation that was beyond my practical experience, I went to the only man that I knew I could trust who had experience of a similar… _dilemma_.” Mycroft, took another sip, he shifted uncomfortably in his chair.  “I asked Sherlock what I should do.” Another sip, clearly now uncomfortable with the subject.

“He told you to choose Libby?”

“No.  He didn’t.”

Molly rose from her seat.  If Sherlock had threatened her sister’s happiness, she was going to, to, to…

Mycroft continued, talking to her back as she neared the door, “What he did tell me was that if I felt for your sister even half of what he felt for you, that the pain of her loss would be too much to bear, that I should understand that if she were to die I would die too.”

Quietly he added, “He told me to let her make the choice. The same choice he believes he gave you.”

Her head gave a quarter turn, she glanced at Mycroft over her shoulder.

“You’ve asked too much of him Molly.  You’ve asked him to allow you to die for him, but that he not be allowed to die for you.”

She began to walk toward the door again.

“And when he didn’t allow you to die, you punished him, you cast him out.”

She stopped mid step, furious and hurt. “It was never my intention to punish him, that wasn’t what I was trying to do, I was trying to protect him for God’s sake. I would never, _never_ deliberately hurt Sherlock, you know that Mycroft, don’t pretend that you don’t.”

“No Molly,” he said gently, “and yet the consequences of your actions were the same as if it had been.”

Not looking back, she gathered her strength and left to look for Sherlock.

_______________

For the second time that day, Sherlock found himself in the small graveyard behind the estate’s chapel.  Fresh white roses, tied with sage coloured ribbon, rested against his son’s headstone.  Molly’s bouquet. 

Mycroft had had a granite bench built beside the grave, “For Mummy and Father,” he’d said, but Sherlock knew that Mycroft was its most frequent occupant, his feelings of regret over the child were palpable. But instead of using the bench now, Sherlock sat in the grass facing the headstone, his legs almost, but not quite, in the lotus position.

He hadn’t meant to do that today, to bring up John in the heat of an argument.  He fisted his hair. Stupid.  _Stupid_.  He’d been brooding on it in his own way almost since he first knew of his son, but had managed to keep his feelings about it under control.  But today, who knows?  Maybe it was the wedding service held in the chapel, the first time it had been used since John’s funeral.  Maybe it was the proximity of Molly, and the grief of losing her now too.  Maybe it was the champagne.  Who knows?  It didn’t matter now anyway, he’d lashed out when he shouldn’t have, injuring Molly, proving to her again that he couldn’t be trusted to keep her safe.

Delicate footsteps crept through the grass behind him. She’d taken off her heels and was walking barefoot.

“You were right” he said to the woman who approached him now, she sat down on the bench to his left.

“Oh? About what?”

“It was at dawn.  Mycroft’s phone call the morning they found me, to tell me…” he trailed off not wanting to finish the sentence.  “It was at dawn.”

They both stared straight ahead.  Each not wanting to see what might be in the other’s eyes.

“I was afraid,” she started as she slipped off the bench to sit beside him, “to tell you I mean, I was afraid. Mycroft was worried about your safety, he never explained it to me, but I think he thought it would make you lose focus, that if you were distracted you might be harmed.  Those weeks in Italy Sherlock,” she paused, considering how much she should say, “When I arrived, he was preparing himself to bury you.  He’d... He’d been told to make arrangements to bring your body home.”

“I know.” He said, and she took his hand.  He let her.

“He couldn’t face that again.”

“I know.”

“I couldn’t face that again.  I’ve grieved for you twice now Sherlock. A third time would have been unbearable.”

He pressed their hands together, “I know.”

They sat in silence for a few moments, their arms and knees touching now.

“That wasn’t the only thing I was afraid of though.”

He drew a breath, “I know that too.”  He wished he had his violin, a cigarette, anything.  “You were afraid that I would reject the child. And you.”  He turned his head to look at her, wanting to kiss her lips so badly he ached.

“Yes. I was.” Barely a whisper.

“I can’t tell you for sure that your fears were unfounded.  I can never know for sure now.  But I would have liked to have been given the chance to defy your expectations.  I’m not so unfeeling Molly, I’ve…” The tears that had threatened earlier finally came; they fell gently from his chin and landed on their joined hands. “I’ve loved him every day since the day that he was born, I can’t imagine it would have been any different had I know about him sooner.”  His throat was constricting now, his chest ached from the effort to control his breathing. His wet eye lashes fluttered closed. 

Molly stood, hiked her now ruined dress up and sat down again this time in front of him, resting her back against his chest.

He rested his head on her shoulder and when at last he thought he could speak he whispered “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Silence fell over them again.  Somewhere in the distance the band played, and the opening words of the song carried in the still night sky, the moon shining bright and the stars sparkling above them,

_There is no greater love, Than what I feel for you, No sweeter song, no heart so true There is no greater thrill, Than what you bring to me, No sweeter song, Than what you sing, sing to me_

He put his hands in her hair and moved it to one side, so that he could kiss her neck, her cheek, her temple.  “I thought you understood.  We’d talked about it – a year before this thing with the Russians happened – I thought you understood that I could not let anything harm you.”

 _Thank god for John and his bravery_ , he thought, _thank God for Mary who had figured it out in time, thank God for Mycroft who could_ _mobilise_ _an army on a moment’s notice._

“I thought I understood too.” She said.

“I laid myself open for you. I let you strip my protection away. I trusted you to understand and when you didn’t you walked away from me.”

Her heart broke at his words.

She turned in his arms, tucking her head under his chin.  She could feel his pulse, jackhammering in his throat; she reached up and placed her hand there. “I didn’t realise you meant that you’d be careless with your life when I was going to die anyway. That I would be the reason your life ended.  I knew a life with you would put me in harm’s way, I just didn’t know that a life with me would be just as dangerous for you.”

She turned again, kneeling now to face him. She treaded her fingers through his curls, he closed his eyes and exhaled at the touch. She kissed the tip of his nose and ran the tip of her nose over his cheekbones.

With his eyes still closed he said, “He - the Russian - told me you would be passed to each of his men until the day you’d be of no further use to them.  He told me in the end I would beg him for your death.”

He pulled her flush to him.  He was finding it harder and harder to breathe. 

“If one of us has to die _of course it should be me_.  You could move on, you could continue to live Molly.  I can only live with you or die without you, surely you see that. There would have been no life for me after you.  Either you would survive or we both would die.  There could be no other option.” He was losing the battle to keep his voice steady. “You can’t protect me by leaving me.”

“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry…” she whispered over and over.  She’d made a terrible mistake, she knew she had.

He cried in her arms, she kissed the tears that fell across his face. A deep shuddering breath left him, “What was I supposed to do Molly, tell me, tell me please.”

She couldn’t answer.  There was no answer to that.

_______________

Molly had managed to sneak past Libby without her seeing the now ruined bridesmaid dress, and change into the dress and flats she had planned to wear the next day. 

She scanned the garden for Sherlock, but at a party where most of the guests were either Holmes men – and she was shocked to find that Sherlock was considered short for a Holmes – or Hooper women, all in at least four inch heels, her lack of height was a distinct disadvantage.

“Looking for someone?”

Molly jumped, _bloody hell_ _Mycroft_.

“Eh, No?”

Mycroft tilted his head and rolled his eyes, a haughty look of derision was bestowed upon her.  Sometimes he was so like Sherlock that she wanted to hug him.

“How is he?” he asked, “Should I be worried about what he’ll do tonight?”

“No. I- ”

 She didn’t get the chance to answer, Sherlock appeared over Mycroft’s shoulder.

“Don’t you have cake to finish off somewhere Mycroft?”

“In fact I do brother dear. Please excuse me.” He tipped his head, “Dr. Hooper.”

Sherlock stood with his hands behind his back, looking shyly down at his feet.  He had changed into his own clothes, his wedding things ruined by the damp grass just like Molly’s.  He looked more like himself this way.  _Armour_ she thought. 

Just as she was about to speak, the band started to play a familiar song.

“Is that…?”

“Yup.”

“Sherlock, what did you do? I know for a fact that Cohen wasn’t on tonight’s song list.”

“I may have bribed them. A bit.” He grinned, that beautiful boyish grin that only came out when he was in a playful mood. “It was costly, but I used Mycroft’s credit card, so…” he grinned again, looking down at her with his head dipped and from beneath his eye lashes.

Molly smiled, trying to forget for a few brief moments that he wasn’t hers anymore. She couldn’t stop herself, she kissed him, his beautiful lips parting beneath hers. 

When she pulled away he said, “Molly Hooper, you’re an idiot,” he kissed her lips, shoved his hands into her hair, ignoring the look of indignation on her face, “I’ll always be yours.”

She put her hands on his chest, ran them under his suit jacket and around his back, taking a deep steadying breath, “So, what now?”

“I don’t know.” He looked at her, serious for a moment, “But what if for now we just dance?”

Molly lit up, happy that for at least the length of the song that was now playing, they could shut out the world and just _be_. She took his hand and pulled him to the patio. 

When they reached the center of where the other couples were dancing he took her in his arms.  He looked at her then - she was scrubbed free of her tear stained make up and her eyes were still puffy, the flower had been lost from her hair, she was wearing a floral nightmare of a dress that she’d already owned when he first met her almost a decade ago, but oh, _oh_ , in that moment, she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

 

 


End file.
